


The Worth of Things

by scandalsavage



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Character Death, Heavy Angst, I honestly don't know where this story will go beyond the exploration of Bruce dealing with shit, So much angst, so check the tags in case things change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/pseuds/scandalsavage
Summary: Overcome with anger and rage, Bruce makes a decision in the heat of the moment... one that will burn his world to the ground."Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things." -Arthur Schopenhaurer





	The Worth of Things

**Author's Note:**

> To see a World in a Grain of Sand  
> And a Heaven in a Wild Flower  
> Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand  
> And Eternity in an hour  
> A Robin Red breast in a Cage  
> Puts all Heaven in a Rage  
> -Auguries of Innocence, William Blake
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://scandalsavagefanfic.tumblr.com/)

He didn’t mean it.

He’d just been so… _angry_. Angrier than he had ever felt before. Rage washed through his veins hot and red and overpowering. This man stood in front of him claiming to be a dead boy. A dead boy Bruce had loved as his own son. A dead boy who knew the difference between right and wrong, who had understood the reason for and followed the rules that Bruce had established.

No killing.

And this man who claimed to be that dead boy, who had that dead boy’s DNA and memories, he stood in front of Bruce and dishonored the memory of that fallen child. Tarnished everything that boy had stood for and believed in, everything _Bruce_ stood for and believed in. This man claiming to be Jason… Bruce refused to believe it, couldn’t allow him to be that boy. To have that boy taken away from him _again_.

‘Jason’ gave him a choice, kill the Joker. Or ‘Jason’ would do it himself. And the only way Bruce would be able to stop him… would be to choose the mass murdering clown who tortured and killed his son over that resurrected son. To injure Jason.

“All you have is a head shot,” Jason had said, “It’s him or me. You have to decide.”

And then he’d counted, and the fury flooded through Bruce’s body. This was an insult to Jason’s memory, to the boy who’d been his partner, his soldier… his son. And suddenly Bruce couldn’t stand the idea of _this_ Jason. Being here at all. To mock the child who had died for Batman’s war. Twisting everything to selfish, violent ends.

He had thrown the batarang in a moment of pure, overpowering hatred. He’s never felt anything like it before in his entire life. Not when his parents were killed right before his eyes. Not when Jason was murdered in a dirty warehouse in a desert. He hadn’t even been aware he was capable of such all-consuming contempt.

Even if he hadn’t been aiming for it, known he had hit his mark… the way the blood had erupted would have been clear evidence…

Bruce had open Jason’s artery.

Regret and horror immediately and jarringly replaced the rage. His aim has always been true. He hit exactly the spot he was trying to hit. He can’t pretend like he missed. The others would believe him. Dick and Tim and Clark… they’d trust him, tell him it was an accident. But Bruce would know, would never be able to convince himself otherwise. He can’t take it back. He will never forgive himself. He will never stop hating himself for giving into that weakness. Or for the fact that it happened with Jason. _To_ Jason.

Because as much as he hates it, as hard as it is to accept, despite his penchant for self-deception, he knows it’s true. He has the evidence. He knows this _is_ his Jason. His son. Angry and in pain but alive. And home.

And bleeding out.

Then, as Bruce stared in shocked horror at what he’d done, as the Joker cackled psychotically, as tears rolled down Jason’s cheeks and mingled with the blood flowing far too quickly from his throat, an explosion sent the building crumbling around them.

Now Bruce tears through the rubble, ignoring the Joker’s taunts from where he is pinned down by debris, not caring about the wisdom in frantically shouting Jason’s name as he searches.

Sirens sound in the distance.

Every time he moves a block of concrete or a piece of drywall he’s transported to the desert. The light around him stutters from grim, Gotham night to bright, hot African day. The rain turns to dust to rain to dust, again and again as he, once more, digs through a destroyed building desperately trying to find Jason before it’s too late… all of it so horrifically familiar that Bruce feels ill. Feels like he’s going to be sick.

A wave of relief rushes through him when he hears a chocked off gurgle from a few yards to his left. _Thank god_ , he thinks as he rushes to the spot. If Jason had—

Bruce’s whole body goes cold as he looms over the mangled form lying, half buried, in wreckage. His mask is torn off, hanging from one temple, the eyes, once pure, rich blue, now flecked with vibrant, unnatural green, are bloodshot and wide. Jason’s jaw works as though he’s trying to say something, lips pressing together before puffing out. Like a ‘b’.

He’s grimy, covered in dust and rock and blood. The pool of red beneath him drips off the jagged ruins of the building. Jason has lost a lot of blood. Too much. And the only major injury Bruce sees is the one he put there.

He feels like he’s wading through waist high mud. Every movement feels too slow. He reaches for Jason and it takes a century for his fingers to cover the gaping slash in his throat. The blood is barely trickling out now. Most of it has already spilled.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Bruce whispers, trying to fix it, trying to take it back, “You’ll be alright. Just hold on.”

 But in the back of his mind… he _knows_.

Jason, pallid and gray, stares into his soul with dim, watery eyes full of betrayal and loss. His lips still work to say something but all that comes out are soft puffs of “B—b—br…”

He blinks once, slowly, and the tears fall. Then his pupils dilate, the colored irises disappear into bottomless black voids. His lips stop, partially open, and don’t move again. His chest is still.

Jason is still. Too still. Sightless gaze staring into nothing.

Time stops. The moment stretches into eternity.

Suddenly nothing seems real. This is a dream, surely. A nightmare.

Bruce feels the moment everything turns off. Like a switch flipped and the lights went out. He feels empty and cold, doesn’t register the sudden influx of movement and noise as the police arrive and move around, securing the Joker.

He can’t turn away from the lifeless body of the dead boy. His partner, a child who was murdered, taken from the world much too young, a child _he_ put in the line of fire. His soldier, a pupil resurrected and returned, hurt and broken, but still, a second chance.

His son. Who, in a moment of weakness and uncontrollable hysteria, he’s…   

A hand lands on his shoulder and the touch is the only reason he hears the words that follow.

“Batman? The EMT’s need to take the body—“

Bruce stands slowly, still dazed, still disbelieving, cradling Jason’s broken, lifeless, body in his arms.

_Again_.

“Batman?” the officer says again, even more hesitantly, “He… he has to go with the coroner—“

Bruce doesn’t bother looking at the man, doesn’t bother responding.

He trudges to the Batmobile, crawls in with a difficulty he doesn’t even notice.

“Home,” he manages to croak weakly, allowing the autopilot to take him back to his sanctuary.

One hand leaves Jason just long enough to rip off the cowl before returning. He clutches the body close, rests his forehead against Jason’s, flinching at the lack of warmth.

The icy touch chases away the numbness.

And for the first time in many many years, he weeps. Wet and ugly and soul-crushingly deep. He sobs loudly, choking on the anguish that tears his heart open, the emptiness that worms it’s way through him making him want to vomit. He’s never known real pain. Not until this moment. It’s so excruciating he can’t breathe.

It builds inside his chest, wave after wave of grief so intense he can’t catch his breath, until it tears down every wall he’s built up over the years.

He was given a second chance, and he threw it away for monster who has slaughtered hundreds. A priceless gift, and he had torched it like it was worthless.

He cries out, screams in agony as the weight of what he has done crashes around him, destroying his world, his life. Everything is gone. Everything is burning around him.

Jason.

His son.

He’s killed his son.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to get all poetic. But the poem was on repeat in my head while I wrote this.


End file.
